an endless round of wrestling with
ow-drifted glaciers. Out of iced sleep-
x-bags at dawn; hot tea made over a
‘imus stove gulped down in scalding
vuuthfuls with halt-frozen beans and
nnock; baggage lashed with freezing
nds to komatiks; dogs thrust, whimper-
x, into frosted harness, then on again
rough clammy fog which congealed on
eek-bones and ahtegis. When. starlit
y deepened into the purple gloom of
sht; while cold stars winked down like
e eyes of Fate, and Northern Lights
st their ghostly greenish phosphor-
cence athwart ghostly mountain tops,
e patrol huddled in their fireless camp.
-ozen fish were tossed to famished dogs,
od thawed over the hissing flame of a
ckering Primus stove, and into sleeping
es and the swift oblivion of exhausted
ep, leaving the Arctic night to the yap-
ng foxes and the padding feet of gaunt
jlves that ever skirmished on the heels
the party.

On the 29th of April, two months after
ving, they pushed their tired dogs
ross a frozen bay broken by countless
‘thrusts of razor-sharp ice.

As excited huskies threw themselves
ith short, sharp barks into the breast-
raps, and komatiks hurtled at express
eed over the jolting ice, McInnes won-
red what would be the attitude of Neuk-
k’s superstition-crazed fanatics in the
ualid snowhouses ahead. Already from
e black voids of igloo tunnels hairy

figures emerged on hands and knees and
shambled like shaggy giants towards
them, brandishing guns and ivory snow-
knives. :

DoustruL RECEPTION

In a pandemonium of snarling canines,
bared ivory fangs, tangled traces and gut-
tural shouts, they cascaded into the Stone
Age village, caught a glimpse of the de-
serted and smokeless post of Hector Pitch-
ford and, next second, were hemmed in
by a milling horde of cowled figures that
seemed to belong to a bygone age.
Wicked harpoons and sabre-like knives
of walrus ivory grasped in mittened hands,
the savages eyed them with lowering
brows. Their matted hair, their torn gar-
ments patched with skins of birds, and
their low, gorilla-like brows and broad flat
noses showed them to be but a degree re-
moved from the creatures they preyed
upon for a living.

“Chimo!” MacGregor
hands in the peace sign.

raised empty

“Chimo!” came the reluctant acknowl-
edgement of the greeting.

From the Tartar-faced horde of glow-
ering savagery emerged a tall, shaggy-
haired hunter clad in patched polar bear-
skins. Motioning to the Eskimos to un-
hitch the dogs and carry in the baggage,
he led the Mounties down a dark tunnel
stored with odoriferous caribou carcasses
in various degrees of disintegration.
Crawling through the opening, they found

themselves in a dome-shaped snowhouse
crowded with barbarians, some
stripped to the waist, others in skins of
birds, seal and polar bear. Overcome by
the combined heat and nauseous odour,
McInnes conquered dangerous drowsiness,
aware of the Eskimo habit of simulating
friendship only to shoot or stab a fancied
enemy in the back.

“Mac”, he turned to MacGregor,
“you've got a smattering of this lingo.
Go ahead and interpret.”

greasy

“Strange stories have come to us of the
doings at this village,” he eyed the hunter,
“stories of an Eskimo who calls himself
‘God’ and has been murdering his people.
Where is this man, Neuktuk?”

“Me Widlappik,”’ the hunter pounded
himself on the chest. With the snake-like
eyes of the shaggy concourse centred
suspiciously on the Mounties he plunged
into a rambling story which MacGregor
managed to piece together.

Jusr Deserts

Lifted to the heights of arrogance and
blood-lust by vanquishing his enemy,
Limik, Neuktuk’s sadistic soul had
promptly sought more victims. Dragged
from her igloo and tossed on the blood-
drenched floor before the snowy throne
of the Arctic “God”, Agluktuk, wife of
the unfortunate Limik, heard her death
sentence fall from the thick lips of the
imposter. Moaning in frightened resigna-
tion, she saw the mad gleam in his satyr-

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